There was a soft halo round each
little flame, and a dreamy haze in the atmosphere, from the midst of which
Monsieur Maurice's pale face stood out against the shadowy background, like
a head in a Dutch painting.
We were both very silent; partly because Hartmann was waiting, and partly,
perhaps, because we had been talking all the afternoon. Monsieur Maurice
ate slowly, and there were long intervals between the courses, during which
he leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, looking across
towards the window and the storm. Hartmann, meanwhile, seemed to be always
listening. I could see that he was holding his breath, and trying to catch
every faint echo from below.
It was a long, long dinner, and probably seemed all the longer to me
because I did not partake of it. As for Monsieur Maurice, he tasted some
dishes, and sent more away untouched.
"I think it is getting lighter," he said by and by. "Does it still rain?"
"Yes," I replied; "it is coming down steadily."
"We must open the window presently," he said. "I love the fresh smell that
comes with the rain."
Here the conversation dropped again, and Hartmann, having been gone for a
moment, came back with a dish of stewed fruit.
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